


Purple Paint

by Agents_R_Us



Series: Morse Code: A Year [7]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Catharsis, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, MTF Bobbi Morse, Morse Code, No Dialogue, No Plot/Plotless, Trans Character, Useless Lesbians, Wives, like one line but be safe kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-10-31 09:30:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10896510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agents_R_Us/pseuds/Agents_R_Us
Summary: On early Sunday mornings, Daisy likes to watch her wife work.





	Purple Paint

On early Sunday mornings, Daisy likes to watch her wife work.

Bobbi’s good at a lot of things: talking, medicine, arguing… but the thing she really enjoys is art. Daisy assumes it’s a form of catharsis. She’s never asked.

Every Sunday, they wake at an unreasonably early hour and set up in the kitchen, mainly because this is the only tiled room in their apartment (aside from the bathroom). Neither are graceful or careful enough not to spill at least once, and even though Daisy doesn’t paint, she’s managed to topple a fair number of palettes in her time.

Then they sit for hours on uncomfortable wooden chairs high above the white marble floors. Daisy always winds up devoting a large segment of her brain to not fidgeting and kicking the island, which would wreck Bobbi's focus. Always, they put their backs to the window. While neither knows qui _te _why or when it started__ , the habit carried and became a tradition.

Some Sundays, Daisy is the subject of Bobbi’s painting, but most she’s just a casual observer. Behind the camera is where she’s most comfortable, in any case. The light is far less harsh back there.

Bobbi never fights Daisy’s intrusions, nor do they speak of their ritual outside hushed references and crude motions. It’s an odd situation, for them. They talk about almost everything. When Bobbi’s feeling dysmorphic, when she loses a patient, when someone says something and she couldn’t retaliate without outing herself, they talk. When Daisy’s stressed, a little empty, on the verge of a break, they talk. But they don’t talk about the art, as if it’s sacrilege or they’d somehow jinx its magic.

But, in the case one decided to attempt a conversation, exactly what would she say? Daisy doesn’t even look at Bobbi’s paintings most times. She would never openly admit it, but the computer genius spends at least ninety percent of the time just watching Bobbi. The curve or her jawline, or any of her other curves—and there were a few—or maybe her eyes skimming over the canvas. Today, she is focused on a pink-painted toenail, barely touching the ground as it swings back and forth, because her wife was _just that tall_ and Daisy loves it.

Gradually, her eyes wander upwards to the leggings—possibly Simmons’s—and loose, paint-stained denim shirt—formerly Daisy’s—which Bobbi has designated her painting clothes. She’d tied her hair back with a rubber band, too tired or hasty to care that it would be a pain to remove later. Bobbi never misses a chance to complain, but she's never actually worn a hair tie, and refuses to now. She’d even turned down one of the brunette’s, that one time Daisy offered.

Bobbi yawns every now and again, plastering purple paint to the cheek her hand touches. Last night had been tough, with not one but two attempts made by teenagers—kids—and they’d both been up for hours talking about it. Bobbi had finally fallen asleep at maybe three, Daisy’s hand resting on the raised lines that covered her thigh.

Daisy, who wasn’t used to working on human bodies with less than six hours of sleep, sits in a far less composed state. Her t-shirt is Mack’s, as apparent from the way it was molded to _giant_ muscles, and the sweat pants that were Trip’s before he finally took the official house test and was sorted into Hufflepuff (the pants are Slytherin). Lazily, she wonders how they’d ended up stealing half of their family’s clothes, as well as how she could possibly acquire some of their newer, more appealing items.

This digresses into a “remembering” list. Things like _that line of code_ or _hit Lance_ or _get my twenty back from Trip_. Usually, Daisy ends up completing around two-thirds of the list (in this case, she forgets the first), because she refuses to write anything down.

And, thus, Daisy would continue, perhaps until Bobbi shifted or sighed, thinking and watching her wife work without interruption or separate care.

When Bobbi was finished, it would end. They’d get up, stretch their legs, and continue on. But, for now, both women sat in their chairs, content.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading!


End file.
